


I see thee better in the dark

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [40]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Awkward Alistair (Dragon Age), Comfort, Dog is the goodest of boys, F/M, Family Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, Slow Romance, Trifling cheese-male
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-24 03:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20351296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Re-write of the post-Denerim romance encounter with Alistair to more closely fit his particular relationship to one Caitwyn Tabris.  Not steamy, but very, very sweet.  Slow romance is in full force.Or, Caitwyn Tabris surprises herself, and Alistair, by asking for help.Note: This series is fully drafted and will be updated on a weekly basis until done!  No danger of an unfinished series here!  Thank you everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting.  Much love to all my fellow Hugo Award winners.  ;)  <3





	I see thee better in the dark

Caitwyn shivered as she crouched in the crook of a tree. The way ahead looked clear. Few people were willing to travel this deep into winter. 

She had known they wouldn’t be able to stay in Denerim. She had  _ known _ . But fleeing the city mere steps ahead of the guards because she hadn’t thought things through? Maker what was  _ wrong _ with her? Mama had taught her better than that. Never act quickly, act  _ smart _ . But the visions of burned out, purged Alienage flickered through her mind.

Those visions encroached on her still, only stilled last night because— 

She jumped from her perch, legs sinking into the knee-high snow drifts, and patted Maethor for his patience. The goal of Soldier’s Peak was not much of a distraction. The promise of shelter and a keep and Warden secrets were all ephemeral, nothing more than ghosts beside the cold and crushing reality of not knowing if her family still lived.

Her family, all the people she had known most of her life, gone as quick as a stroke of a sword. Their homes and possessions turned to cinders and smoke. Nothing left but bitter ash.

Maethor butted his head against her leg, and she grunted at the impact. Her gloved fingers found his fur and she scratched him right behind his ear. His happy grumble slowly brought her back to the task at hand: finding the way to Soldier’s Peak. Attempting the Frostbacks in winter was the worst kind of madness, and even finding the Dalish in the Brecilian Forest would be hard going as the snow kept piling up and the southerly winds grew more biting each day. However, the pass to the old keep was supposedly manageable even in the depths of winter.

Gazing out over the rolling hills, hills that hid surprising gullies and sinkholes, Caitwyn wondered if stopping somewhere else would be an option. If  _ she _ could stop. Could stop seeing a burned out husk of her home behind her eyes.

She had, though. For a night. Breaking the fresh snow as she trudged forward, the effort did not stop her swirling thoughts. Every time she tried to steal a little thing for herself, the world kept crowding in, reminding her that she was small and that there were bigger things to deal with. The Alienage purged, Loghain’s tightening grip on power, and the Blight encroaching over the land. What did it matter how she’d gotten to sleep?

Puffing from the exertion of reaching the top of another snow shrouded hill, Caitwyn stood with her hands on her hips. Then she dug in her pack for a trail marker and speared it into the frozen ground. 

There were a few more hours until sundown. They could cover a few more miles at least, and perhaps she’d be tired enough to sleep.

* * *

Alistair jerked awake. Something was different in the dark of his tent, and he rubbed tired eyes as he tried to figure out what was off. Then he caught a glint of green in the darkness.

“ _ Cait _ ?” His voice rose with startled incredulity. Her slim outline shifted guiltily, and a jumble of thoughts sparked in his head all at the same time: something’s wrong, is she alright? What’s she doing in my tent?  _ My tent _ , oh sweet Maker, she’s here just like how I can’t help thinking of—

“Sorry,” she whispered. She backed into the canvas, an anxious tension in the line of her shoulders. “It’s nothing, just a bit restless. You were sleeping, shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll go.”

“No! Don’t! I mean, you… I…” Fumbling over the words like always, he sat up and begged his worn out brain to catch up and make his mouth say the right thing. “I don’t want you to go.”

They both froze.

“I’m sorry.” He spoke so quickly the words blended together. “If you wanted to be here, that’s perfectly alright. I don’t expect anything, I’m not just wanting you here for—”

Her fingertips on his lips stilled his mouth. Thank Andraste, her left boot, her nose, any part of that woman who watched over him before he could say something very, very stupid. Though she could watch a little  _ closer _ . But not too close. That would be weird.

“I know.” The whisper of her lilt stilled his thoughts. He’d never met anyone who could hold his attention like her. His brain flew every-which-way some days, but when Caitwyn talked everything came into focus. She let her hand fall away, though the warmth of her fingers lingered on his lips.

The dark of the tent was nearly absolute, but as he stared into it her outline became the discernable lines of her face and the short curls of her hair. She shuffled away from the edge of the tent and regarded him with eyes that shone in the dark, clever fox eyes that glinted and gleamed. “You sure about this?” 

Feeling moderately brave, and assured that she wouldn’t run away now, he tapped the back of her hand and was rewarded with her turning her palm up. Their fingers twined together, and a warmth bloomed in his chest when she ran her thumb across the backs of his knuckles. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

Her brief  _ huh _ was far from the laughter he’d won from her before, but all things considered it was a good sign. She wasn’t disappearing into the rabbit hole of her head. At least not completely. “You have, a thousand times over.”

He was pretty certain he hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to kick her out. It was too cold. Yes, that was why. Too cold, and she’d be warmer here. “Well, yes. I’d really like it if you stayed. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I feel like my head’s going to explode when I’m near you. Not sure if that’ll make for restful sleep, but. I’m rambling again.”

“I like your rambles.”

“Well, are you in luck. I have a lot of them!”

“But maybe tomorrow? I. I really need sleep.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” 

Tentatively, she inched forward, and he scooted back on his blankets to make a space for her. Were they really doing this? Cait laid down and curled up on her side, and it seemed that they were. She huddled into a ball, and he wondered if she’d always slept like that. Taking up as little space as possible, as if she was hiding even when she slept. 

“Cait,” he whispered as he gingerly tapped her shoulder. “You can, um, take up more space, if you want. Or, um, like last night, you can, um, cuddle up?”

“Oh. Right, yeah, I suppose.” She breathed the words and bit by bit uncurled herself. He pulled the blanket up over her, but she didn’t flinch. Instead she pressed her hand to his bare chest. A shirt, he should wear a shirt. At least he wore his breeches to sleep in the winter. Maker help him, what a mess  _ that _ would’ve been. Then her fingers curled into his chest hair and she huffed with amusement. “Didn’t think it’d be soft. It’s kind of cute.”

“ _ Cute?! _ ” He played up his indignation, and was rewarded with an actual giggle. “I’ll have you know it's  _ very manly _ chest hair. You can’t just call a man’s chest hair ‘cute’! It’s devastating, I’ll have you know.” The rant earned him even more soft laughter, and his arms found their way around her. She wore a thin shirt, for which he was grateful, but he could still feel the smooth lines of her back and count her ribs. Wasn’t eating enough, probably, and he promised himself he’d make sure she ate better.

“I’ll keep that in mind when I talk about your chest hair in the future. Sure to be a common topic of conversation.” Her dry tone made him smile, and his whole body relaxed. This was going to be alright. He wasn’t messing this up! 

His eyelids were growing heavy, and he didn’t bother to suppress a yawn. Cait’s shoulders relaxed, too, and she nuzzled close. The arm underneath her would be pins and needles by morning, but he didn’t care. She was so close, and as always the scent of fresh water and lilacs filled his nose. He’d blame all that for speaking without thinking as he drifted off, “Good-night, Cait. Love you.”

* * *

“Well, there, I said it. I love you. Won’t kill you to hear it again, right?” Alistair’s voice jangled on the words, desperately trying to treat it as if it wasn’t as important as it was. 

Her breath caught in her chest, and her fingers curled in the thick fabric of the blanket.  _ Love _ . How close had she come to that word and not said it? How long had she circled it,  _ knowing _ she loved him but so terrified of thinking it even in the relative safety of her own mind? 

The words perched on the edge of her lips, merely waiting for the barest fraction of courage to be said. She wanted to say it back, because she felt it, she felt in her bones and in her heart and in every last part of her. Loving him was laughing in spite of herself, the careful touch of hand to hand, the flutter in her stomach when they kissed, and the ferocity with which she watched his back in a fight. His fingers brushed at her cheek, her hair, so gentle, not like she would break, but rather like she was precious and clean and whole and good. Things she had thought she couldn’t be, not after all she had done.

“Hey, hey, Cait, it’s alright if—”

“I love you, too.”

“Oh, good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His voice was teasing, but his arms tightened around her.

“Maybe,” she said tersely, though her lips curved into a smile. She felt his laughter rumble in his chest, but he only held her tighter.

“I’ve got you, Cait,” he said softly, and she knew that was certainly true. He had her as surely as the sun rose in the east. “I’ve got you.” And in his arms, she found her way past visions of what she might have lost to the embrace of sleep.

* * *

Maethor grumbled low in his chest, his jaw resting on his paws. Master had told him to stay outside. Another male was with Master now. The cheese smelling one, not the leather smelling one. Maethor had liked the Cheese-male, because he made Master laugh, like Maethor did. Because good boys made their masters happy. That meant the Cheese-male was a good boy, too.

Now Master and the Cheese-male were together.

And Maethor was outside.

Maethor wondered if Master was warm enough. The Cheese-male wasn't small, but he didn't have fur. Fur was warm, and warm was good.

Decided, Maethor stood and poked his head through the gap in the cloth. The Cheese-male was curled around Master, but she blinked her eyes, waking up.

"Maethor? What?" she asked. The Cheese-male made high grumbly noises, but did not wake. At least until Maethor shouldered his way inside and wiggled his way between them.

"Oi!" the Cheese-male cried, "What the!? Your dog!"

"He's probably lonely, and this is a big adjustment for him," Master said, patting Maethor gently as he snuggled around her.

"He's doing this on purpose, you know," the Cheese-male said darkly, glaring at Maethor. Maethor grinned at the Cheese-male, feeling very proud of himself, because he knew he had done the right thing.

Master had been cold. The Cheese-male was not good enough. Master still needed Maethor, because he was the  _ best  _ boy.


End file.
